Love Is Watching Someone Die
by casablanca-sucked
Summary: Post-War: George Weasley is having a hard time getting over the death of his twin, his partner in crime and best mate. Every memory hurts and he doesn't feel like he can ever be happy again without Fred. R&R!


**A/N: Oh, crap, this was supposed to be a short little drabble. I didn't expect it to get this long but as I wrote it I felt like I needed to add something or I thought of a really good "head canon" thing or whatever. So, fair warning, this is HIGHLY depressing and contains spoilers. I lost count on the number of times I cried while writing this. Basically, it's just a long one-shot on George's mourning over his twin, and it's sort of how he moves on but doesn't exactly. I guess you could say I wrote this to help myself move on as well.**

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><p>Three long months had passed since May 2nd, a historical day in the Wizarding World; it was the day the darkest wizard, Lord Voldemort, was killed. The Dark Lord was not the only casualty that day, however. On May 2nd the lives of Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Colin Creevey, Severus Snape and several others were lost that day, during the Battle of Hogwarts. The death that effected George Weasley the most, though, was the death of his twin brother, Fred.<p>

Every day since George lost his brother felt like a month. George felt like he was on another planet, where the days were longer and there was no oxygen and no Fred. He found it hard to breathe at night, knowing that once he woke from his dreams about having his best friend back, Fred wouldn't be fast asleep in the bed across from him.

The first few weeks didn't seem real. George had even convinced himself that Fred had taken all the money from their shop and gone on a luxurious vacation without him. It seemed like kind of prank Fred would pull. George saw it clearly in his head: Fred left him a short note, explaining what he had done but after a couple days Fred would return and reveal a second ticket to the Quidditch World Cup and then they'd both have a good laugh. After two and a half weeks, though, George realized that Fred really wasn't returning this time, he realized that he wouldn't be going to see the Quidditch World Cup with his brother, his best mate.

On a good day, Ron or Ginny or Bill managed to get a smile out of him but that seldom happened. When it did the whole family stopped and stared because when he smiled they saw Fred's smile, his last smile that he died wearing. That was only one of the reasons he never smiled anymore. The other reason was that he couldn't ever find a reason to smile. Every jubilant memory that George had was of Fred and himself; Weasley Wizard Wheezes' grand opening, when they were given their first toy broomsticks, the evening that the pair were sorted into Gryffindor, the afternoon they won their first Quidditch match, or when they rebelled and nearly blew up Hogwarts with all their fireworks. Thinking about those memories, though, only depressed him because he knew days like those would never come again, not without Fred. It almost felt like a dementor was always looming over his shoulder, stealing all his happy memories and twisting them into something depressing.

His parents had arranged a funeral for their son two weeks after the Battle. George insisted on pitching in, giving them some money from the shop so they could throw a decent funeral for Fred. Even Bill and Fleur, Charlie, Harry and Percy wanted to pitch in, but mum and dad wouldn't let them. Although George hoped the funeral would be lively like Fred would've wanted it to be, with aviatomobiles flying around and guests heads disappearing due to the use of Headless Hats, his parents did the absolute best they could and it was a funeral fit for a hero. The remaining members of the Order attended, along with their relatives, like Aunt Muriel. After the ceremony ended George found himself outside, weeping. The other guests were out by the grave, laying down flowers and saying final goodbyes. George didn't understand why everyone was saying goodbye—it was too late. Fred was gone and saying goodbye to a tombstone wouldn't do anything. Besides, if anyone ever felt like visiting his grave, they could, so this wasn't goodbye; the time for goodbyes had long passed.

Somehow, despite his constant sobbing, George could make out the sound of light footsteps behind him. Because of the Battle, he had the urge to jump up, wand at the ready and defend himself but he found himself sitting still, his face buried in his hands. If, for some insane reason, it happened to be a Death Eater, so be it because he felt like dying.

Instead, it was his youngest sibling and his only sister, Ginny. "George," she had said softly, resting a supportive hand on his shoulder.

A lump in his throat kept him from saying anything. George didn't know where it came from, though he thought it might have appeared when he tried to hold back unwanted tears.

"He's not gone, George. Didn't you hear Neville when we all thought Harry was dead? He's still with us, I know it sounds cheesy, but he's still with us in our hearts. Especially you. Mum and dad will see him through you everyday," Ginny paused, "I'm not just saying that because you guys looked alike. Every time you pull a prank, though, or every time you laugh, or break a rule, we're all going to see him shine through you."

George lifted his face up from where it was buried in his hands. Ginny gave him a weak, but supportive smile before he buried his face into her shoulder. "He was my best mate," he whimpered into her shoulder.

Occasionally George would turn around or look to his side, expecting his brother to be there. Sometimes he'd even call out to him, unintentionally. When the Irish made it to the Quidditch World Cup again, George caught himself sprinting up the stairs in their shop to tell Fred the news. And whenever they'd run out of something in the shop's inventory, he'd walk into the back of the store where Fred had once sat, breeding Pygmy Puffs. Once or twice George would start a sentence and stop midway, waiting for his twin to finish it, only to realize that the sentence wouldn't be finished. Things changed, though. Instead, Ron sat in Fred's place and he'd be laying on the floor, covered in rogue Pygmy Puffs. In the mornings, right after the battle George would always wake, still half asleep, but awake, and mumble "Morning, Fred," but instead of a giddy reply there was only the sound of Ron's snoring. It wasn't that George didn't appreciate Ron's help with the joke shop, but he was no Fred and he never would be. As much as the Weasley family looked alike, nothing and no one could replace his twin.

In late August business was booming more than usual, with school about to start up again young witches and wizards were running up and down the newly restored Diagon Alley. George found it almost impossible to walk through his shop and it became a habit of his to simply apparate from the back of the shop to the front counter.

Two days before school began George woke up to the sound of customers. He realized that he overslept and Ron had opened the shop downstairs without him. Across from him, on Ron's bed, laid Ron's suitcase. It was open and clothes spilled out of it like water overflowing in a sink.

For some reason, George felt bad that Ron's clothes had to always sit in his suitcase, lying underneath his bed until he needed to change his outfit. He knew Ron didn't mind, but he felt pathetic. Despite the fact that he felt bad he couldn't bring himself to clean out Fred's dressers. He wouldn't admit it, or maybe he didn't even realize it, but he had developed some sort of a hoarding problem when it came to Fred's stuff. Today, however, he knew he would _at least_ empty out the dresser. Not now, though. His first priority was checking on the joke shop that he and his brother had worked so hard to start.

After throwing on his purple Weasley Wizard Wheezes' robes he apparated to the front counter downstairs, nearly landing on Lee Jordan, who occasionally helped out around the shop. "Sorry, Lee!" George exclaimed, making his way passed the front counter and over to another red haired man wearing purple robes; Ron, George told himself, though a part of him expected to see Fred's face when the man turned around.

"Business is booming," Ron repeated the same words Fred had said to Harry two years ago, though he didn't realize what he had just done, how he just punctured George in the heart. Ron just grinned ear-to-ear, happy with the shop's sales and clueless of what he'd just said.

"Great," George replied through a lump in his throat.

"Hello, George!" came a familiar, elated voice. Hermione Granger, who was now dating George's brother Ron, walked over to them through the crowd.

"Oh, Hermione, hi," he simply replied. "What brings you here today?"

"Well, I still had to buy my books for school and I thought I'd stop and say hello to you and Ron," she answered cheerfully.

George had never held a grudge against Hermione. Even when she proved Fred and himself wrong in their sixth year, when they tried to outsmart Dumbledore. Today, with her big grin and bright eyes, though, George felt a sort of envy towards her. Three months had passed and parts of Hogwarts were still in ruins, but she smiled and laughed and seemed so unaffected by it. He wondered if it was because she came from a muggle family, one that, as far as he knew, was effected by the war. She had not lost her best friend, her sibling, her partner in crime. He envied her.

"So you're going back to finish your seventh year?" George asked, though the answer was obvious, he only asked because he simply wasn't interested.

"Of course she is. She'd have to be possessed if she didn't," Ron said dumbly.

An idea came over George, suddenly, and although he thought he'd be against it—which he sort of was—he also found himself excited by the thought of doing it. "Are you still doing the S.P.E.W. Thing, Hermione?" he asked her.

"Yes, actually," she began excitedly. He'd never get her to stop now. "I happen to have some pins with me. Would you like to sell them here? I could give you them for free and I'm sure your customers would really like them. I was even hanging up some fliers down by Ollivander's earlier. It's funny you—"

"Actually, I've got something for you, Hermione. I don't think I need any of your pins, thanks, though," he cut her and then beckoned for her to follow him upstairs.

Once they had reached his bedroom George felt as if Hermione had cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on him and he was frozen in place. His arms hung at his side like strings of spaghetti, unable to do anything.

"George, what did you want to show me?" Hermione interrupted his thoughts of how hopeless he was.

"Right. I, I want to give you...give you Fred's clothes, for the house elves at Hogwarts. They would fancy that sort of thing, right?" he asked.

"Oh, that's brilliant, George! Do you want to give it all away?" she asked.

"No," George exclaimed immediately. Besides a lot of Fred's clothing would be far, _far_ too big for the tiny little elves. His socks would go as far up as they could and his t-shirts would fall passed the elves' feet like wedding dresses and it would be useless giving away any kecks of his. George didn't even know how that would work.

It seemed easier, when he had thought about it. He thought he'd just be able to grab a handful of the clothes and throw them into a box but it wasn't that simple. Piece by piece he picked them out, staring at a single sock for five minutes, as if something precious was hidden in the pattern of it. Every time he picked one up though a memory came with it and every time he put something in the box he felt like he was throwing that memory away, losing it along with a piece of himself forever. For certain pieces of clothing he'd try to come with an excuse as to why he shouldn't throw it away, for example Fred's dragon-skin coat, which cost nearly as much as their shop itself.

Money didn't matter to him, though. If he could, he would give up their shop, give up the dragon-skin coats, and the boat loads of galleons if he could have his twin back. The idea of moving back into his small bedroom at the Burrow, having a closet full of hand-me-down robes and sweaters, and having little to no money seemed fantastic. He'd even take the early morning complaints from Percy, that usually started with Percy banging on their bedroom door after one of their long-term experiments decided to explode. It almost seemed like a goal of his, a dream that he dearly wished to achieve, but just like his happiest memories, none of those things could come true without Fred.

Unlike the dragon-skin coat, some articles of clothing _really_ struck a chord with George. Despite the fact that they had graduated Hogwarts several years ago Fred and George both had kept their Gryffindor Quidditch robes in their top drawers and George couldn't give Hermione those. He couldn't her the jumpers that mum had made Fred on Christmas and birthdays, either. His eyes glistened with tears as he stared down at the large 'F' that rested on the blue jumper. "_We know we're called Gred and Forge_," George remembered saying once during the Christmas holiday.

He didn't give away all of Fred's clothes, he could never, even under the Imperius Curse he believed. Fred's Quidditch robes, jumpers from mum, and WWW robes still hung in George's closet. When Ron fell asleep at night or was working downstairs in the shop, George would pull out one of Fred's jumpers and hold it tightly, planning on never letting go. On some occasions he fell asleep with one of the jumpers against his chest, like a blanket and on other occasions he even put them on. They never lost that Fred smell, and they never wore out, thanks to a charm that Hermione showed him. Everyone said they smelled the same, but it was nice to feel the soft texture of the jumper and close his eyes and imagine that it was Christmas again, and Fred was actually there for it. Years passed but the clothes never got dusty or worn and they never left George's closet, save for the occasions when he took them out and thought of his brother and felt his brother's presence there with him.

Everyone seemed to move on after some time, even his mum. He found himself being jealous of everyone around him, the same way he had felt towards Hermione in August. Sometimes you have to be told lies to move on and that's what George did. George told himself little white lies everyday, about how he'd be happy and Lee was a good best mate, just as good as Fred had been. He woke up in the mornings and told himself these lies and they helped him move on. Although half of his heart, half of his soul had been ripped out of May 2nd, the rest of him did move on, and he did remember. He didn't allow the memories to fade, not even the emotions that came with them because that didn't seem fair to Fred. Out of all the lies George told himself, he knew there was one truth that made it all worth while: He would see Fred again one day, and they would greet each other with pranks and jokes that the two had thought up while they were apart.


End file.
